


(your heart) fits like a key

by theorchardofbones



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Chronic Illness, Explicit Sexual Content, Henry's aged down to match Vito, Hopefully there aren't too many anachronisms because I researched the ASS off this fic, Joe and some female OCs show up for a little while, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Wartime, Writing this broke me and I'm terrified nobody will ever see it :')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: The wartime college AU that nobody asked for, but which would not let me sleep.
Relationships: Vito Scaletta/Henry Tomasino
Comments: 16
Kudos: 15





	(your heart) fits like a key

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Hurts Like Hell' by Fleurie.
> 
> Been a while since I wrote for a new fandom, and I had to pick one for a game from a decade ago, didn't I?
> 
> Some quick notes before diving in: Henry is roughly the same age as Vito for plot purposes; he contracted TB as a child and as a result is chronically ill, but mostly doing okay. His eyesight also sucks, simple because I like the mental image of bespectacled-Henry.
> 
> Thanks go to Bish, for generally humouring me about my new obsession with these two, and for the help re: blasphemy versus sacrilege.

Beauty was a subjective thing.

Growing up with six brothers in Sicily — to a man in the Life no less — didn’t leave much room in Henry Tomasino’s childhood for beautiful things. He would’ve happily spent his days getting lost in books or tracing panels from the comic books his cousin sometimes sent over from America, but Silvio Tomasino always said no boy of his was going to waste away his life on frivolous things like art and literature.

Henry’s six brothers, they were so much like their father in so many ways. Henry, though? Henry took after his Mamma, and he was happier for it.

_ ‘Let the boy dream,’ _ Mamma always used to say.  _ ‘He’ll grow up someday and see what things are like for himself. Let him have this until then.’ _

She was the emulsion that kept the oil-and-water of their house together. Whenever Silvio’s temper flared she was always there to smooth it over, to talk him down with her clever tongue.

But then the consumption came, and it took her away. Almost took Henry, too.

A sickly child had no place in such a big house, with no matriarch — and with Mussolini breathing down his old man’s neck, there wasn’t much choice. Silvio Tomasino bought his son passage on the first boat he could find to America, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Maybe beauty didn’t always look the same to different people — maybe Silvio Tomasino never understood what his son saw in the reds and oranges of sunset, in the swell of the music in the records Mamma used to love to play — but that didn’t make it any less real, any less powerful.

* * *

Henry Tomasino was eighteen years old when he saw the most beautiful man in the world.

The guy looked like he was plucked straight off the silver screen — a jawline that could cut glass, thick, dark hair slicked to the side, eyes so blue they put the Atlantic Ocean to shame.

It wasn’t like Henry was the only one who was looking; the girls on campus seemed to agree, turning their heads so fast it was a wonder they didn’t pop right off. They were pretty, too, with their big eyes and their fluttering lashes, their hair all done up in the latest fashion.

They were lookers, sure, but they had nothing on Vito Scaletta.

Vito.  _ Vito, Vito, Vito. _ Henry held onto that name and twirled it around on his tongue the first time he ever heard it, at the door of his dorm room of all places.

_ ‘Vito Scaletta,’ _ the guy’d said.  _ ‘Guess I’m your roommate, huh?’ _

If Henry and his old man had been water and oil, then he and Vito were something else entirely. If Henry was black-and-white, then Vito was full, glorious Technicolor.

And Vito lived his life to the fullest, too — lived every day like it might be his last. Whether it was the booze, or the girls, or the cards, he never seemed to stop moving. Henry felt like he was soaring towards the sun whenever he was with Vito. Like Icarus, with his wings made of wax.

Henry knew what happened to Icarus, though. You flew too close to the sun, you had to get burned eventually.

* * *

‘Try some of this.’

‘Vito, I’m studying here.’

‘Then call it a study aid. C’mon, Henry,  _ live a little.’ _

Henry sighed and removed his eyeglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sometimes, Vito was  _ relentless. _ Henry was just glad Vito hadn’t brought a girl back, for once. Finals were just around the corner, and he didn’t seem the least bit worried.

Henry shot Vito a look where he sat on the edge of his bed, waving a glass bottle enticingly. It was half-filled with something that looked like the whiskey Henry’s old man used to drink, only darker.

‘If I try it,’ Henry said slowly, ‘will you leave me alone?’

Vito seemed to consider this for a long moment, leaning back to take a long, luxurious gulp. When he swallowed, he gave a permissive nod of his head and sat up, handing the bottle over.

The label was handwritten — badly. Even after putting his glasses back on, Henry couldn’t make out what it said, other than the word ‘rye’ at the end. He studied the bottle a little, turning it this way and that. Lifting the brim to his nose, he took an experimental sniff.

It smelled sharp, and nasty. Like a mix between gasoline and the solvents Mamma used to clean her paintbrushes with.

_ ‘Henry…’ _

Vito gave him  _ a look. _ It said he wasn’t going to stop until Henry gave in and took a sip.

With another sigh, Henry cradled the bottle between his thighs, then folded up his glasses and carefully placed them on his desk.

‘What the hell,’ he muttered. ‘You only live once.’

As he lifted the bottle to his lips, Vito gave a cheer of encouragement. In spite of it all — despite how much of a  _ pest _ Vito had been all year, bringing girls back at all hours, blaring records — there was still something about Vito Scaletta. Something that made a little drop of warmth settle into Henry’s belly whenever he spoke.

The rye tasted something like battery acid when it first hit Henry’s tongue, and he coughed and gagged on it, thrusting the bottle away from him. 

‘The hell is that?’ Henry asked, his eyes watering.

Vito gave a shrug as he took the bottle from Henry’s grasp. He downed another serving like it was water.

‘Bootleg,’ he said simply. ‘It’s good, right? Put some hair on your chest.’

Henry grimaced and retrieved his glasses, unfolding them and slipping them back onto his face.

‘You should take those things off more often, you know. Girls might give you a second look.’

Unpleasantly, Henry’s stomach flipped. Vito was always gabbing on about that — about girls, about getting Henry a girl, about making girls want him.

The problem wasn’t that the girls didn’t want Henry — he’d had interest, sure, even if it came in more of a trickle compared to the downpour Vito attracted. The problem was... Well.

Discomfort prickled at the back of Henry’s neck. He could feel Vito’s eyes on him, even after he looked away.

‘Not gonna walk around blind as a bat just to score a date,’ Henry said bluntly. 

Vito tapped his jawline thoughtfully.

‘You got a point there, Tomasino. If you can’t see, how you gonna know if she’s worth takin’ home?’

That was the least of Henry’s worries, but he was content to leave it at that. Let Vito think he was too much of a drip to catch a girl’s eye. Let him think whatever, as long as it wasn’t the truth.

‘You gonna leave me alone now, Vito?’ Henry asked pointedly, adjusting his glasses on his nose. They had round, dark plastic frames, like the kind Harold Lloyd wore. Henry always thought he looked pretty good in them.

He turned back to his books, poring over the pages to pick up where he left off. He’d just found his spot when something hit him in the back of the head.

There was no mystery who the culprit was — he didn’t need to see Vito in the middle of it to know the crumpled-up ball of paper that fell to the floor after hitting him had come from that side of the room.

Vito Scaletta was a menace. His mother must’ve been a saint.

Henry didn’t even deign to look up. Vito was trying to get a rise out of him, and he wasn’t about to play along.

Until a second paper-ball hit him, ricocheted off the side of his head, and landed with a resounding  _ splash _ into the mug of coffee sitting on the desk. It was long-cold and half-empty, but full enough that it sent the dark liquid sloshing out over the brim, narrowly missing Henry’s books. He scrambled to salvage everything, clutching his books and papers to his chest. Anger throbbed in his temples, at his jaw. This was what it’d always been like for him: the square with the weak lungs, the loser who almost drowned in gym class. The perpetual butt of everybody’s jokes.

When he scowled and turned to Vito, though, his roommate was smiling. Proffering the bottle of bootleg hooch like a peace offering.

‘You been crammin’ all weekend, Henry.  _ C’monnnn, _ take a break for a little while.’

Henry wanted nothing more than to smack the bottle right out of Vito’s hands. Maybe tear him a new one with a handful of choice epithets drawn from the tirades his old man used to treat him and his more mischievously-inclined brothers to, whenever Mamma wasn’t around to defuse things.

Instead, Henry’s shoulders slumped in defeat. With Vito, there was no winning. Guys like him always got their way.

‘Fine,’ Henry muttered, dumping his books onto his bed. But first you give me a hand cleaning this mess up.’

* * *

Henry figured they’d hit the bar near campus — one of Vito’s usual hunting grounds — but when they reached the street, Vito flagged down a cab instead.

‘Where’re we headed?’ Henry asked, anxiously peering out of the window. As a rule, he didn’t usually like sudden changes of plan.

‘Sit tight,’ Vito said, nonchalant. ‘Ain’t too far.’

The driver bantered with Vito as they went along — the weather, at first, and then the war. The war never seemed to be far from anybody’s thoughts these days, with so many men getting called for the draft now that the US had joined the fray.

Henry tuned the chatter out and busied himself with picking out the street names as they passed by, trying to get a gauge on where they were going. For one horrible, fleeting moment he thought maybe Vito was bringing him to a bordello, but then they turned down Lincoln Park and pulled up outside an apartment building with a  _ doorman _ waiting outside.

‘Thanks, pal,’ Vito said, handing over the fare. ‘Hope your son does okay.’

The doorman didn’t know Vito, but he recognised Andrew Jackson well enough to let them through. He opened the doors onto a gilded foyer, and Henry couldn’t be sure they hadn’t walked into some fancy hotel by mistake.

‘Where  _ are _ we?’ Henry asked, gawking at the gold fixtures, at the marble floors. ‘How do  _ you _ know somebody livin’ here?’

Vito made a wounded face, clutching his hand to his chest as if in pain. In his other hand he still held the rye.

‘Hey, I know people,’ he said. ‘You know I almost got into movies?’

Thankfully, Vito filled Henry in on their locale for the elevator ride — apparently a friend of a friend — the daughter of a big-shot politician — was home alone in a penthouse while daddy was away. Whether daddy knew there was a little gathering here tonight, Vito didn’t say.

Dogged by the distinct feeling that they didn’t belong here, Henry followed along as Vito led him down the luxurious hallway. Henry was afraid to step on the light parts of the rug in case he dirtied it up with his shoes.

Finally they reached the apartment at the very end. Before Vito could knock, he turned to Henry and fussed over him for a little while, unbuttoning the top of his shirt and fiddling with his hair, trying (and failing) to part it to the side.

‘Shit,’ Vito mumbled. ‘Shoulda brought pomade. What can you do, eh.’

Apparently satisfied enough for now, Vito turned to the door and knocked. A moment later the door opened, and the madness began.

* * *

Vito’s friends were loud and bawdy, and they talked so fast Henry could barely keep up. Not that he had anything interesting to contribute — they talked about things he had no clue about, tossed slang around like it was a second tongue, and filled the lapses in conversation with healthy glugs of alcohol.

Vito’s rye was a hit with the others, but they had legitimate stuff there too: fancy bottles of bourbon, champagne, even tequila brought from south of the border. Henry stuck to the beer he’d been given when he arrived, taking tiny sips from time to time to occupy his hands.

‘Say, Harry,’ Vito’s friend Joe said, from a couple seats over. ‘You from Sicily, right?’

Henry grimaced. Vito had said his name often enough that anyone here could have remembered it, but Joe seemed more sauced than anybody else that night.

Shifting uncomfortably, Henry shrugged. He’d figured maybe he could fade enough into the background that he could make his exit in a little while. It wasn’t like Vito would miss him; he seemed pretty occupied with the politician’s daughter, one hand sliding up her thigh where they sat talking on a sofa.

Now that Joe had called Henry out, there were a few sets of eyes on him. He hated being at the centre of things.

‘Yeah. Left when I was six,’ he said, running a finger under his collar. ‘I don’t remember too much about it.’

‘That Mussolini’s a piece o’ work,’ one of the girls — Dotty — said, in her nasal voice. ‘Pretty lucky gettin’ out before it all went to hell.’

Henry gave a nod. His family was still back there — not that he’d really kept in touch with them since coming to live with his aunt and uncle in Empire Bay. Last he’d heard, Salvatore’d gotten hit by Mussolini’s draft. There hadn’t been a thing their old man could do about it.

‘You ever think about enlisting, Henry?’

This came from Betty, the girl with the doe eyes and the strong nose, like something off of a Roman coin.

Henry wet his lips. That was a loaded question — even without a brother on the enemy side, Henry had never been a fighter. He didn’t know whether to feel fortunate or embarrassed that his bad eyes and worse lungs rendered him ineligible to fight, but he had the feeling that nobody — not Betty, not Dotty, least of all  _ Joe _ — would find his various ailments heroic.

‘Henry’s a lover, not a fighter,’ Vito drawled.

When Henry looked over, their eyes met across the room. The politician’s daughter had made herself at home against Vito’s side, and was nuzzling his neck without a care for whoever saw it. Henry quickly looked away.

‘War’s a terrible thing,’ Dotty said, with a grave nod.

‘What are you studying, Henry?’

Betty again. Out of everybody there that night, she’d shown Henry the most interest — but then, from the way Vito’d kept nudging her towards Henry, it’d been pretty obvious they were being set up.

She was nice, sure. Maybe not a Hollywood doll, but pretty in a humble sort of way. The kind of girl you were happy to bring home to your folks.

Still, not Henry’s type.

‘Uh, art history, literature,’ he supplied, drumming his fingers on his beer bottle. ‘Takin’ a module on classical studies this semester, too.’

There was a flurry of movement out of the corner of Henry’s eye. Vito and the object of his affections had gotten up from the sofa and were headed for the bedroom; Henry tried to ignore the knot in his stomach.

‘Sounds like you’ve got lots of savvy, Henry,’ Betty said, with a smile. ‘I like that in a guy.’

The knot in Henry’s gut only got worse. He figured this was probably the part where she’d come over and take him by the hand, maybe drag him to the guest room — try to make a man out of him.

The thought that Vito and his girl would be right there in the next room over only pulled the knot tighter.

‘I’m gonna, uh.’

He fumbled the words out, his tongue too big for his mouth. When he stood up, it felt like his legs belonged to someone else.

‘Is there any place I can get some air?’

Joe looked unmoved, his attention on Dotty. He gave a vague wave of his hand toward the back portion of the room, where a heavy set of drapes covered a sliding door.

Henry trudged across the room. Betty stood up when he passed her, but she didn’t follow. He didn’t think he could deal with her looking at him the way she had been since he got here.

It was almost full-dark now, the city lit up with the glow of artificial light. Far below, cars rolled slickly along the street, the roar of their engines a distant hum.

The night was crisp and clear, not a cloud in the sky. Soon enough, Empire Bay would descend into the swampy heat of summer, but for now the breeze was pleasantly cool. It rasped against the back of his neck, settling his thoughts.

Vito never should have dragged him here tonight. A bar, Henry could handle — even if he didn’t really drink, it was at least easy enough to blend into the background if you kept your head down. Here, Henry didn’t fit in, and it was only becoming more starkly clear as the night went on.

If he was lucky, he could hole up out here for a while until the others forgot about him entirely. Slip out the door while Vito was busy. He probably didn’t have the funds for a cab fare, but it was a nice night — he could walk home.

He leaned against the metal railing, looking out over the park. It seemed so different at night from all the way up here. Lonely, almost.

He sighed. He and Vito were just too different, from opposite worlds. Vito was like the ocean, going wherever the tide took him, and Henry…

Henry was the oil in the water.

Stomach churning, he hunched over the railing. Maybe next year they’d get new roommate assignments. Vito’d wind up with somebody more like him — somebody  _ fun. _

And Henry? Maybe Henry could get some peace.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he stayed out there. All he knew was his fingers were cold and so was his nose, and he’d killed enough time that everybody had probably forgotten all about him.

There was a hiss behind him, the sliding door rolling on its tracks, then gliding shut with a soft  _ thud. _ He winced reflexively, expecting it was Betty coming out to check on him.

The hand that rested on his shoulder was heavy.

‘Hey. You doin’ okay?’

Vito’s voice was a salve. Even all burned up like he was about being dragged here, Henry still found himself gravitating to that voice, like a moth to the lamplight.

‘Yeah.’

‘Betty said you were—’

‘I’m fine, Vito.’

He heard Vito’s intake of breath and regretted being so sharp. It wasn’t Vito’s fault that things were the way they were — that  _ Henry _ was the way he was. And Vito couldn’t change himself any more than a leopard could change its spots.

‘Here. Maybe this’ll help.’

He heard the scuff of Vito’s shoes across the surface of the balcony, and then Vito was right up close behind him. Henry could only stand still and hold his breath as Vito’s arm slipped around him — for a moment that seemed to stretch into forever, his mind raced to try to understand what was happening, his heart leaping into his throat.

There was something between Vito’s fingers as they lifted towards Henry’s face — a cigarette. Only it looked different than usual, like it’d been rolled up by hand.

Henry’s stomach did a little dance.

‘Is that… uh… the giggle-smokes?’

Behind him — too close — Vito snorted.

‘Just take a drag, numb-nuts. You’ll feel better after.’

Henry was doubtful, but this was just another thing where Vito wasn’t going to give up until he got his way. Better to just do it and shut him up.

Vito lifted the reefer to Henry’s mouth, and his fingers were so close they almost brushed Henry’s lips.  _ Almost. _ Henry wondered if Vito knew what he was doing, being all close like this.

‘Close your lips around it,’ Vito said softly. ‘You ever had a cigarette before? You gotta suck on it, but don’t get the end all wet.’

Henry’s reflex was to protest that he knew what he was doing, but the truth was, he didn’t. He’d grown up watching his aunt blast through a pack a day, and his cousins had sneaked drags from the ends when she wasn’t looking, but Henry had never been tempted. His lungs had trouble getting enough air on good days, without him making them work for it.

So he kept quiet and he did how Vito told him to, pursing his lips around the reefer and sucking through it like a straw. He had to pull on it hard to get anything out, and when he did it seared his throat going down. He barely had time to turn his face away before a cough racked through him, making his lungs burn.

‘Whoa.’ Vito’s arm slipped from around him; a beat later the weight of his body was gone. ‘Don’t go dyin’ on me, pal.’

When Henry could finally bring himself to straighten up, he turned around to face Vito, ready to tear him a new one. It died on his lips at the sight in front of him.

Vito’s hair was all mussed up from its slick style; the buttons of his shirt were part-way open, the fabric of it crumpled like he’d been in a tousle. Henry realised, sickly, that that wasn’t far from reality.

Vito was beautiful, though. Usually he was all neat and perfect, not a hair out of place — clothes so sharp they looked like they came straight off a shelf at Vangel’s. Right now he was…  _ undone, _ like a painting made in broad, carefree strokes.

Henry leaned back against the railing behind him. He didn’t trust his legs much any more.

‘The first taste’s always kinda harsh,’ Vito said, pinching the reefer between his thumb and forefinger and holding it up. ‘Second’ll be better, promise.’

It wasn’t as if Vito never steered him wrong. They’d known each other, what, the better part of a year — in that time, Vito had kept him awake so late he’d missed class often enough to get a warning, ‘borrowed’ his shaving mirror and somehow lost it, and almost set fire to their room while smoking in bed. Coming here tonight had just been another harebrained Vito Scaletta scheme. Probably Henry was just here so everybody could laugh at what a cold fish he was.

But Vito was offering the reefer to him again, and for some reason Henry would never quite fathom, he took it.

Maybe there was still a part of him that didn’t know if he just  _ wanted _ Vito, or if he wanted to  _ be _ him.

Vito had a point, though; it was smoother this time now that Henry was ready for it, and when he inhaled it deeply — as he’d seen Vito do when savouring a smoke, hanging out of their dorm window and letting the cold air in — he felt a rush go through him. He’d expected the tight sensation in his chest that always came whenever he got a whiff off of somebody’s cigarette, but there was only lightness. It was like taking a breath of fresh air for the first time, even if it  _ did  _ make his eyes sting.

‘See?’ Vito said with a self-satisfied grin.

(Henry didn’t know if that look on his face made him want to strangle the guy, or kiss him.)

Henry had read about what the reefer could do — how it could loosen you up, make you let go of your inhibitions. Maybe that was exactly what he needed. He took another pull, really savouring it this time, and before he got to the end of his breath, the dizziness hit.

It was like floating off the ground, or maybe like his head had come detached from the rest of him and was drifting away, off over the park. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

‘Okay, hotshot, that’s enough for now.’

Vito reached out and grabbed the reefer. He dragged from it like it was one of his Big Break Blues.

It was nice to watch him smoke, the way he lifted it to his mouth, holding it between the lower joints of his fingers. The way his lips pursed just slightly, filling out; the way his eyes fluttered shut, like he was really enjoying it.

Something coursed through Henry, something overpowering. He wasn’t floating any more; he was drifting away in the tide.

‘Hey.’ Vito’s hand reached out, catching Henry by the arm. The reefer tumbled to the ground, forgotten. ‘You need to sit down?’

Did he? In all of Henry’s life, all the weeks spent in hospital, the months convalescing in bed — the years of never being  _ quite right _ after — he’d never felt whole. Now? Now it felt like every minute of Henry’s miserable existence had been leading to this.

He lurched forward, and the worry on Vito’s face gave way to surprise. With boldness that Henry didn’t know he possessed, he delved his hand into those dark, tousled locks and stretched up to Vito’s height, pulling him into a kiss.

It ended in the blink of an eye — Vito’s hand on his chest, a short, sharp shove. Henry tottered backward into the railing.

The understanding of what he’d done rang through him, cold and clear as the morning after a night of regret. He knew what came next; he’d heard the stories. Had dreamed fitfully of the day he screwed up and got himself killed. He shut his eyes, partly to steel himself for the blow, partly so he wouldn’t have to see the look on Vito’s face.

‘We’re gonna go inside,’ Vito said, soft but firm. ‘We’re gonna put on a little music, dance with the girls, see about gettin’ you Betty’s digits. And then we’re gonna forget that happened. Awright?’

A lump knotted in Henry’s throat. Swallowing thickly, he gave a compliant nod.

By the time he’d opened his eyes again, Vito had already gone for the door, pulling it open and slipping through. In his wake, he left a cloud of smoke hanging in the frigid night air.

* * *

It was barely after midnight when Vito made his excuses, even though the party didn’t seem to be winding down any time soon. The politician’s girl, Peggy, pouted and tugged at him to stay, but he was liquored-up and ornery, and he left in a mood with Henry close behind.

Henry didn’t really know why he stayed that long. Mostly he wasn’t sure he could handle heading back to their room, alone with his thoughts and nothing to distract him.

The reefer helped him forget that stupid kiss a little, and when a bottle of tequila had gone around he’d gladly taken a glug from it to help the process. He was buzzed, sure, but not so far gone that the kiss didn’t keep replaying the whole way home in the cab. It’d been swell at the party with everybody there, with the liquor flowing freely, with Betty to dance with and share soft kisses — even as his mind kept running over how her lips were nothing like Vito’s.

Now, there was no buffer between them, and Vito was quieter than Henry would’ve liked where he sat in the other seat, staring impassively out the front.

It wasn’t good when Vito got quiet — not when he was sauced. Henry remembered how his father would get like that sometimes with a glass of liquor in his hand, face dark as a stormcloud just waiting to erupt. Even little six-year-old Henry was smart enough to steer clear when he got like that.

There was no avoiding Vito, though, not as they rode home and not when they walked the rest of the way to the dorm.

The whole time, it felt like something was brewing, like it was the hurricane of ‘38 all over again just waiting to make landfall. Henry knew from his father that when things got that bad, the only thing you could do was run for cover.

Vito motioned for Henry to open their door — probably he forgot his keys like he always did, when he came hammering at the crack of dawn for Henry to open up, after a night of debauchery with Joe. Henry would’ve taken the ruckus over this deathly quiet anyday.

Henry was barely through the door when Vito pushed his way inside and slammed it shut. Vito grabbed at his arm, and Henry knew it — knew this was it, the moment he’d been spared from earlier. Vito turned him and shoved him up against the wall and his grip was tight enough to bruise as it grabbed at Henry’s arm— 

Until it wasn’t any more, and Vito was pressing up against him, his mouth — hot and ripe with the taste of tequila and cigarettes — closing over Henry’s.

Danger still rang through Henry, but there was something else — something intoxicating — and it begged for the kiss to go on, sated only when Vito’s hand knotted into his hair and yanked on it  _ hard _ to get a better angle for their mouths to meet.

Vito’s tongue darted out, running over the shape of Henry’s lips, slipping between them. It chased after Henry’s tongue, roving against it.

Need and longing went through Henry, and a pitiful sound of  _ wanting _ escaped his lips.

‘Quiet,’ Vito hissed, with another tug at his hair.

Henry made another pathetic, tremulous sound in answer, and for a moment Vito looked like he really  _ was _ going to hit him until he pressed up against him again, pinning him fast to the wall.

Henry was rock-hard and Vito’s thigh was shored against it, grinding. This time, when Henry couldn’t stop the moan from bubbling out, Vito shut him up with a sharp nip at his bottom lip.

With Vito leading the way, they somehow got over to Henry’s bed — Vito all but shoved Henry back onto the bed, so hard it knocked the breath right out of him. Henry had barely enough time to discard his glasses on the nightstand before Vito was on top of him, knee between Henry’s thighs. In the moonlight streaming through a crack in the drapes, he was an Adonis: olive skin and ink-dark hair, his eyes a cool blue in the pale light.

Henry wanted  _ more. _

He reached up to go for Vito’s jacket and Vito swatted him away — but love-drunk as Henry was, something compelled him to do it again, and this time he wasn’t rebuffed, and Vito helped him pull it off, tossing it on the floor like it was worthless.

Henry went for Vito’s fly next; Vito caught his wrist and pushed it up, pinning it to the headboard behind him. When Henry wriggled in a half-hearted bid to get free, Vito only gripped tighter.

Vito’s eyes were dark as he hovered there over the bed, dark and unreadable. There was a look in them like he hadn’t entirely made up his mind whether he wanted to clobber Henry or not, but in the next breath he was leaning down, his mouth covering Henry’s again. His knee pushed up between Henry’s thighs, thrusting them apart; dug into the jut of Henry’s cock so forcefully it would probably hurt if it didn’t feel so damned  _ good. _ With his right hand still pinning Henry’s to the headboard, his left slipped down between them and went for Henry’s fly.

A thrill went through Henry, dizzier and loftier than a reefer-high. He tried his best to match Vito’s kisses, tongue desperately seeking Vito’s out, body arching up towards him. Every time Henry’s lungs started to scream for air, Vito would pull away, chest heaving — only to dive back in a moment later for more.

With Henry’s fly taken care of, Vito shoved his hand down under his slacks, under the band of his boxer-shorts, fingers closing around his cock. His grip was rougher than Henry would’ve liked, his fingers and palms calloused, but his touch was steady and sure, like he knew just what he was doing. With each stroke of those calloused fingers, Henry twitched and trembled under his touch, body taking on a life of its own. A groan ripped free of his lips, so desperate he couldn’t have stopped it if he’d tried.

‘I said,  _ keep quiet.’ _

Vito’s tone brooked no arguments; his expression was dark, savage, when Henry brought himself to look up at him. This was a dangerous game they seemed to be playing, and Henry still wasn’t sure of the rules — still wasn’t sure if one wrong move would leave him with a black eye, or worse.

‘Turn over.’

Before Henry could even move, Vito was tugging at him, all but manhandling him into place. It wasn’t like the guy was rough — just knew what he wanted. For Henry, who’d never done this with  _ anybody, _ much less another man, he was happy to follow along.

Vito rolled him onto his stomach, barely wasted any time yanking his slacks down. His hands were hot on Henry’s skin as they tugged at his boxer shorts, leaving them down around his thighs.

Unmistakable sounds filled Henry’s ears: the jingle of a belt buckle, the  _ pop _ of buttons, the heavy sound of Vito’s breathing interwoven through like some carnal melody. Henry’s head spun in realisation of what was happening, what they were about to do — when a moan welled up inside him, he bit down harder on his lip than Vito had before, to keep the sound from coming out.

Vito’s cock was hot and slick as he pressed the head of it up against Henry’s entrance. For a single, alarming second Henry thought he was going to go ahead like that, without a moment to prepare him — but then he felt the grip of those calloused hands on his ass as Vito made no further attempt to move.

‘You ever done this before?’

Vito’s voice was rugged, tequila-loose but lucid. Like the thrill of all of it had sobered him up some.

Henry stared at the knots in his headboard, wondering what Vito looked like right now — if his face was anything like that time he forgot to hang a sock on the door and Henry’d walked in while Vito was sprawled back in his chair, some broad with perfect curls poised elegantly between his legs. For just a second, before Vito noticed the intrusion, he’d been lost in ecstasy. Like he’d died and gotten fast-tracked straight through the Pearly Gates.

Wetting his lips, Henry shook his head. There was no point in lying about it — not now. He almost wanted to ask if Vito had ever done this, too, but the instinct for self-preservation held him back.

The bed squeaked and dipped and Vito got up, and Henry watched — furtively, through the mop of hair that had fallen into his eyes — as he moved over to his own nightstand across the room, yanking open the drawer. Even just in his 501s and a wife-beater, Vito was beautiful. Henry couldn’t help but shiver at the thought: tonight, just for one night, Vito was  _ his. _

There was something in Vito’s hand when he came back. A tin of pomade. The bed dipped again, and one warm, solid hand rested in the jut of Henry’s hip. There was a slick sound, and Vito’s other hand bumped the inside of his thigh, and then— 

Being touched —  _ there _ — was almost enough to make Henry jump out of his skin. To hear the priests say it, this was what you got sent to Hell for; but under Vito’s touch he couldn’t help wondering how something so  _ wrong _ could feel so  _ good. _

The pomade was cold, but it warmed up quick enough in Vito’s touch, and he didn’t seem eager to scrimp. He slicked Henry up good, and his hand lifted from Henry’s hip just long enough to close the pomade tin and clean up his fingers on a rag before it found its way back again, like it belonged there.

‘Relax, baby,’ Vito said. ‘I’ll be gentle.’

_ Baby. _ Henry shivered; felt his skin prickling into gooseflesh underneath his shirt. Vito said it like he was talking to one of his girls, but this time he wasn’t — this time it was Henry, and this was reallyhappening, wasn’t it?

There wasn’t time for any second thoughts — not like Henry had any, Lord forgive him — and Henry could feel the heat of Vito up against him again, easing into him, and—

_ ‘Ah!’ _

Henry couldn’t keep it back, and he expected a scolding from Vito but all he heard was a soft grunt and sharp breath, like Vito was just as far gone as he was, too.

Vito’s fingers dug into him, clinging to the outline of his hip. That’d leave a bruise in the morning; Henry didn’t care.

‘Fuck. You’re— you’re tight.’

_ No shit, Sherlock, _ Henry almost said, to coin one of Vito’s favourites, but all that came out was a shuddering breath.

His arms felt like they couldn’t support him any more; he lowered himself onto his front, turning his cheek into the pillow, and hazarded a glance back over his shoulder. Vito was kneeling behind him, eyes screwed shut, head slumped forward. His brow was a deep V of concentration or maybe pleasure, his mouth hanging slack. He wasn’t just beautiful any more, he was  _ transcendent. _

Henry watched him huff out a breath, and then he was moving again, and this time Henry couldn’t keep his eyes open; there was pressure, and it was almost too much, but Vito’s grip was there at his hip to guide him through.

_ ‘Fuck.’ _

Henry could have echoed the sentiment, but the English language seemed to have fled his mind entirely, and the only Italian he could remember was the words his Mamma drilled into him for church. He didn’t feel too much like adding blasphemy to his list of sins.

‘Gonna start movin’ now, yeah?’

Henry could barely muster up a nod. He was wound so tight he felt like a spring waiting to snap.

And then Vito moved, pulling back, slowly — and then next time, when he thrust in, it was still gentle but it was faster, and before Henry could even catch his breath he was pulling out to do it again.

Henry didn’t know if he wanted to tell Vito to stop, or to keep going; couldn’t form the words in any case. It seemed like every time he’d settle into it, some new sensation would jolt through him, and he’d be spinning off into the abyss again.

And then Vito was covering him with his body, enfolding him, one hand still grabbing onto his hip for purchase; the other snaked underneath him, fisting closing tight around his dick.

‘Feel good?’ Vito panted by his ear.

Henry was somewhere halfway between Earth and Heaven. All he could manage was a wavering  _ ‘Uh-huh.’ _

It was good, and it was  _ perfect, _ and even if sometimes it hurt a little — Vito was thoughtful enough to dial it back in those moments, responding to each sharp gasp of breath, each tensing of Henry’s pent-up spine — it was better than Henry ever imagined even in his most feverish wet dreams.

Vito.  _ Vito. _

Maybe he said it out loud; maybe Vito’d somehow bored inside of his thoughts as much as inside of  _ him. _ Vito made a confused, blissed-out sort of sound by Henry’s ear and Henry lifted his head off of the pillow to try again.

‘Vito,’ he hissed. ‘Vito, Vito…’

‘That good, baby?’

‘Yeah… God,  _ yes.’ _

There was a nip at his ear — Henry couldn’t tell if he was being too loud, or if it was done in the throes of passion, but either way it felt good — and Vito’s hand gripped tighter on his cock, at his hip, like he didn’t wanna let go.

He was murmuring against the shell of Henry’s ear, husky nothings that could’ve been English or Italian for all Henry knew. They only got more unintelligible as the moments ticked by, his breath huffing out in great, shuddering gasps.

Somewhere along the way, Henry seemed to lose himself. Somewhere along the way, he forgot where he ended, and where Vito began. A moan ripped out of him, so desperate, so pleading; he couldn’t tell if he wanted to scream or sob. Vito clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle him and Henry let it tear free, crying out into Vito’s sweat-slick fingers as his vision went white and the world turned inside-out.

He slumped, boneless, into the mattress; couldn’t care less about the cold mess sandwiched between him and the sheets.

Vito pulled out, and there was a choked sound and heat spurted against Henry’s entrance, trickled down his thighs. A beat later Vito was heavy against him, heavy and warm and safe.

* * *

They slept, somehow — not in Henry’s bed, damp with sweat and whatever else, but in Vito’s. Henry didn’t know if he drowsed or not, slumped into his mattress as he was, but at some point (after time had lost all meaning) Vito dragged him over to his bed and they lay there curled up on the twin-size, tangled together like they were two parts of a whole.

Morning came, announcing its arrival with a ray of blinding-white sunlight through the gap in the drapes, and when Henry moved to get up Vito groaned in complaint and clung all the tighter, so that they could sleep some more.

And they did — until Henry couldn’t any more, and he woke up alert as a rooster at dawn, aware (dimly) that he was missing class but, more important than that, that last night had been  _ real. _ For a long while after, he just lay awake in Vito’s arms and tried to match the rhythm of his breathing, steady and slow.

The dancing with Betty, the reefer, the kiss out on the balcony all seemed like some distant memory. He’d mapped Vito onto the very bones of him, onto his  _ soul, _ and it felt like he couldn’t remember a time before they’d been together, like he hadn’t  _ existed _ before Vito Scaletta had held him in his arms.

Heaven was Vito’s embrace; Heaven was lying right here, with no place else Henry would rather be, and Heaven was where he would’ve happily stayed if it hadn’t been for the damned knock at the door.

That knock changed everything, in ways Henry couldn’t yet know.

There came the scramble — limbs shakily untangling from each other, clothes yanked on — and whoever waited on the other side of the flimsy wooden door had the decency or the good sense not to barge in uninvited.

Vito was the most presentable, even with bedhead to end all bedhead, so he went for the door while Henry tumbled under his covers to play sick (careful all the while to miss the sticky spot on the bed that should’ve made him feel guilty but only pulled him into a reverie of the night before).

There was a phone call, the RA said, for one Vito Scaletta. Whatever it was, it was urgent, and Vito didn’t utter out so much as a goodbye before he was gone.

* * *

Years later, Henry could still remember the look on Vito’s face when he’d come back from that call. The way his face had been all chalky white, his eyes wide and glazed.

Vito never said the words, not exactly, but in those days it went without saying. You lived in fear of that slip of paper coming through your door, that phone call, that telegram, and every day you felt a little closer to running out of luck.

Henry with his 4F would never have that worry, but he felt it all the same when Vito had clung tight to him, ramrod straight and dry-eyed, like a part of him had already given up.

_ ‘A year,’ _ Vito had said.  _ ‘They let you go after a year, right? I can handle a year.’ _

Time didn’t mean anything to the Reaper; didn’t stop him from stealing away Henry’s Mamma when he was too little to understand a world without her in it. A bullet wouldn’t care whether Vito’d been over there a year or six days, wouldn’t care whether its mark had lived a good life or a bad one, whether or not there was somebody waiting at home.

But Henry had recited his reassurances anyway, because that was what Vito had needed to hear. Chanted them like an oath — like if Henry only said it enough, maybe he’d start to believe it, too.

_ A year. Just a year. No time at all. _

* * *

He had to find it out from the papers — a US plane shot down over Sicily.

The 504th. Vito’s regiment.

He didn’t need a letter, or a list of names. There was nobody to call him up to tell him the news; nobody to show up at his door with platitudes about Vito’s service.

Henry knew it in his heart all the same.

* * *

_ Sicily, 1949 _

The old stone wall had been knocked over and put back together so many times it was a miracle it was still standing at all. Henry’s fingertips brushed over bullet holes in the sun-bleached stone, and he wondered who’d been the one to piece it back together when the war had finally ended.

Was this the spot? Had Vito made it this far before they gunned him down, or had he died long before, in the wreckage?

‘Hen?’

Henry sucked down a breath like a drowning man. When he turned to Bettina his eyes were dry, even if he couldn’t shake the knot in his throat.

‘Yeah, babe. Sorry.’

Her lips were stretched into a line, one hand resting on her swollen belly. Any day now she’d be ready to pop. Baby number one. Henry’s family were ecstatic when they got the news.

The Sicilian sun agreed with her; her dark hair was flecked with blonde, her skin glowing. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they stayed, like his brothers kept begging. Just for a little while.

‘We should head back soon if we wanna make it in time for dinner. You need a little longer?’

Henry looked across the fields just outside San Celeste. There was a monument out there in one of them, to commemorate the crash; it was the first place he’d visited. To hear it from the locals, that wasn’t even the spot the plane touched down — they’d just picked it because of how it looked, framed between a withered tree and an old, tumbledown shack.

The evening sun was low, but still bright enough that he had to shield his eyes with a hand. Even from here he could see the shape of the plane propellor that made up the memorial.

He didn’t know why he came out here — what he’d expected to find. Closure, maybe. Closure for something that had slipped between his fingers as easy as grains of sand. Something so beautiful that maybe, just maybe, it’d never been his to keep.

He hadn’t found it, whatever he’d been looking for.

‘Nah,’ he said, with a slow shake of his head, like he was just waking up. ‘I’m done here.’

Betty’s hand slipped through his, small and sun-warm. It was as familiar to him as his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've managed to find this fic through the tags, feel free to hit me up on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones). Please. I have nobody to scream to about these two.
> 
> If you're following me from another fandom and decided to give this a read, I am grateful, and thoroughly humbled.


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